


Told You I Was Trouble

by anonymousdaredevils



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, F/M, Fluff, Hatesex, M/M, Secret Identity/Reveal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-10 12:18:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4391588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousdaredevils/pseuds/anonymousdaredevils
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>written for more than a few "matt/fisk consensual/fluff" prompts, including the one that asked for "matt/fisk: start dating before they know about each other's extralegal activities".  </p>
<p>all consensual.  varying degrees of fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Told You I Was Trouble

“Wilson,” Foggy said, drawing the syllables out into the sort of long, nightmarish consideration that Matt remembered from law school. 

“No, Foggy,” he said. 

“You _wish_ no,” Foggy snorted. He'd settled himself comfortably in Karen's desk, and Matt had the feeling that he was staring at Matt's tidy, well-put together suit – look, he hadn't _dressed up_ , it was just that Wilson had mentioned that he wanted to take Matt somewhere nice for dinner. It would've been rude not to prepare, given that hint. “He picks you up at the office, and I shake his hand, and we're civilized about it.” 

“I am a grown man,” Matt argued. “You are not, actually, my spinster aunt.” 

“Okay,” Foggy agreed, which was a warning sign in itself. “I follow you to wherever your new sugar daddy is taking you, and the minute he gets fresh I blow my whistle, and everyone involved gets really humiliated and has no fun. You're right. That's – that is actually much more fun for me, thanks.” 

“Nooooo,” Matt said. He tried really hard not to smile, because that tended to encourage Foggy. “I have hidden your whistle, anyways: good luck finding it.”

“I get them by the dozen from China,” Foggy said, cheerfully. “You're a grown-ass man, which makes your need for a chaperon much more embarrassing.” 

“What's embarrassing?” Karen asked. She sounded hesitant, and happy, and Matt heard the curtain of her hair shifting, heavy against her shoulder. “Is it – oh, Matt, you look nice today. Don't listen to Foggy, you have nothing to be embarrassed about,” she said. The delicate skin of her face smelled rich with blood; she was probably blushing. 

“Matt has a _date_ ,” Foggy said, with cruel and cheerful precision. 

“I have a _meeting_ ,” Matt said, and tried not to let his voice crack like he was fifteen, because that would actually be tantamount to blood in the water. 

“Oh!” Karen exclaimed; she sounded a little surprised and ultimately – encouraging? Karen was too good for him. “Who is she, have I -?”

“It's not a date,” Matt said. There was almost no chance it was a platonic meeting: it was _almost certainly_ a date, but he hadn't gotten to where he was in life by rolling over and letting Foggy terrorize all of his romantic partners. “Wilson isn't -” There had to be the right way to end the sentence, some combination of words that would deflect curiosity and ultimately, concern: _that much_ older than me? probably not _that_ dangerous? _someone you need to worry about?_ "It's just a meeting," he decided. 

"About what?" Karen asked. 

"What counts as first base?" Foggy suggested. 

"You're the one who plays softball," Matt said, finally giving in: "I'll bow to your superior expertise." 

Karen giggled. 

"Yes!" Foggy cheered. Matt heard the whistle of his - clenched fist? - through the air. 

**

 

“You look distinguished,” Wilson said, low and honest, and Matt said “thank you,” just as quiet and even. 

“He looks hot,” Foggy said, critically, “and at the end of the night I expect to see him looking just as put together as he does now. And have him home by eleven! And - “

“Good night, Foggy,” Matt said, holding back his laughter; he wrapped an arm around Foggy's shoulders, suddenly proud of his friend, glad that Foggy was so willing to be open and kind around a stranger. Foggy dropped a smacking kiss on his forehead, proclaimed “don't do anything I would do, Murdock!” and shooed them out the door; Matt caught Wilson's pleased, rumbling chuckle. Blushing made it feel more like a _date_. 

“Your friends show a deal of care,” he said. 

“I'm a lucky man,” Matt said. 

“Yes." It was odd, and good, to spend time with someone so blunt. “May I?” he asked; Matt realized that – the thing was that Wilson was taller than him, and broader, and – and Matt wanted several things that wouldn't be wise. Every time he'd indulged in these...occasional urges, occasional itches, it had been...anonymous, and quick, and Matt had felt safer knowing that he wasn't the only one ashamed of those encounters. This was new; this was different. He didn't know what to do with his free hand. 

He camouflaged the sharp pang of lust with the brightest smile he could manage: “yes,” he said. 

 

**

 

“You're a gentleman,” Matt said, and wrapped his hand in Wilson's scarf, and pulled down, that was – that was a thrill. “So be a gentleman and give me what I want,” and he was kissing, and then sudden and bright and good, getting kissed: ah, that was going to be enough to keep him from thinking, good, good, good. 

“I don't want to – presume,” Wilson said, close against Matt's jaw; he sounded half-wrecked all ready. Matt could go for months without thinking of men's bodies, and then get caught up in the experience; this was what he liked best about sex, the flash-flood of stimuli, the scrape of stubble, the blunt pressure of teeth. Wilson's hands were shockingly big, and callused; he cupped the back of Matt's head, and the pressure of his fingers carding through Matt's hair was...very good. 

Matt felt heady with the power of it; he wanted to spread his legs, feel the heavy, solid weight of Wilson holding him down, making him feel it. Did he – damn, damn, damn, tonight wasn't the night that he should – he still had stitches across the back of one shoulder, and those would be difficult to explain, and - “you should presume,” he admitted, honestly, “you should let me take you out next weekend,” because maybe by then he could get the stitches out, or come up with some kind of cover story. Other people got injured, sometimes, didn't they? 

“May I -” Wilson asked, against his throat, and Matt did not yowl and he only wrapped one leg around Fisk's thighs like a cat or an arbourealist. “You're sensitive,” he said, hot against Matt's cold skin. 

“Little bit,” he said. 

 

***

 

Wilson hadn't anticipated how charming Matthew would be. Strikingly handsome, yes, and his body had been surprisingly hot and muscular, and his callused hands had been strong and sure; he spent the morning remembering the sweetness of the kisses, off and on, until Wesley brought the tapes to Wilson's attention. “I don't want to alarm you,” he'd said, quiet and calm, “but I feel that you should be aware.” 

The masked man was – the way that he fought was arresting. Savage. His determination, the perseverance: it practically sang off the gritty, poor-quality security footage. 

"He took his mask off?" Wilson asked Wesley. "Do we have - did we get an angle?" 

"No," Wesley said. "He's clearly driven by emotion; it's good to know. Just in case, of course." 

"I have no particular stake in the success of the Russian operation," Wilson said, but - but this definitely constituted a complication, and one that might prove to be someone's undoing. 

"No," Wesley agreed. "Not - them, particularly, but - shall I continue to make inquiries?"

"Yes, please," Wilson said. 

 

***

 

Two days later he met Matthew Murdock for breakfast, in a tiny hole-in-the-wall that Murdock had insisted on taking him to – my turn, my treat – the man said. Matt had a dark bruise on his cheekbone, and lied badly about it. 

Wilson thought about that, for a little while. Considered it, to say. 

“I'm trying to change this city,” he told Matthew; he hated to blink, wanted to catch every instant of his startlingly open, changeable expression. “I'm trying to fix this city.”

“Good,” Matthew said. He didn't smile. He sounded caught up in the idea, wildly, seriously passionate about the attempt to bring Hell's Kitchen to order. Wilson caught his hand. It was a man's hand, callused and hard: two knuckles were split, and another was swollen. Matthew had done violence with this hand, and he didn't pull it away from Wilson's clutch; Wilson's own hand was large enough to swallow Matthew's up entirely. “Someone needs to. Someone should do something – it's gone on long enough, people looking away, people ignoring -” he broke off. Color bloomed in his cheeks. He smiled, uncertain and crooked, and seemed to come back to himself. Wilson let him pull his hand away; he'd seen what he wanted – no, not what he wanted, but what he needed to see. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I – that's too much, I shouldn't have – it's not breakfast conversation, is it?”

“I don't care for convention,” Wilson told him, feeling dizzy with the honesty of it: “I care for the passion you display, Matthew.” 

He'd folded that selfsame passion back up into himself, where Wilson was sure that it lived ninety percent of the time, and smiled – not the true one, broad and open, but a polite movement of his lips. “Not many people think it's...convenient?” he said, a little ruefully. 

“You're attached to the city yourself,” Wilson said. “I'm aware of – of your work, in Hell's Kitchen. Of your history, here.” 

“It's my home,” Matthew said. “I – why did you choose this place? Of all the ghettos across the eastern seaboard?” and the question was too sharp to work as the gentle joke Matthew clearly meant it as. 

“I want to make this my home,” Wilson said. That was honest, at least, if not the whole truth. “I find myself attached to what I've found here.” 

“I think you're flattering me,” Matthew said. 

“Yes,” Wilson agreed. “Is it flattery if it's true?” 

He was certainly blind. No one could fake that, not this well, could they? And yet. And yet. When Wilson put his hand on Matt's shoulder, the man flinched. Barely perceptible, but – it was a flinch. 

It wasn't damning, by itself, but it was...suggestive. Troubling, and suggestive. It would've been wrong to label his thoughts as suspicions in and of themselves, but Matthew managed to dispel them – for the moment – by sighing, and displaying a charming and honest vulnerability. 

“I'm sorry,” he said, and reached out to take Wilson's hand again, as they exited the diner, swinging his cane in front of him with the other, an even metronome to the conversation: “I'm sorry, I don't – this isn't what I – normally.” He paused. “With men, anyways,” he said. It sounded a little self-deprecating and a little tired, and it drove Wilson to honesty, himself. 

“I don't often entertain at all,” he said. Matthew tilted his head, considering. 

 

**

“You don't have to see me to the office,” Matthew said, at the entrance to his building. “Foggy is – I've known him for years.” 

“I appreciate your partners,” Wilson said, because that was true, too. 

“Your funeral." 

**

"Matt, you hound, you - oh, hey! Wait, did you _walk him to work_?" Nelson - Foggy, and that ridiculous nickname shouldn't have been so charming - said. He blinked before he squared his shoulders, shook Wilson's hand, briskly. "You, I like," he said. "I'd offer you coffee but I don't do that to the people I like."

"It's _not that bad_ ," Ms. Page protested. "Good morning, Matt, Wilson." 

"This is your chance," Matt told Wilson, fighting back a grin. "Get out now, they're terrible gossips." 

"Libel," Ms. Page said immediately. "Libel? Slander? I always get those two mixed up."

"Unactionable," Nelson told her. "Have to prove that it substantially damages someone's reputation before it counts. C'mon, slacker, I need you to double-check my closing arguments, I can't speechify like you do." 

 

***

"Hey," Matt said, suddenly, in the awkward tone of voice that usually meant Claire was going to be humiliated or stuck "helping" him some more. 

"No," she told him. 

"No, it's just. Um." He was going a slow, deep red, which was a) adorable, and b) a very definite Warning Sign of some kind. She just wasn't quite sure what it might be about. "You've seen me with my shirt off." 

"It was an experience," she said. "Best possible way. Nine out of ten, definitely, maybe ten out of ten if you stop tearing your stitches. I recommend it." 

"I don't really do mirrors," he said. And grinned at her, the little shit: why had she pulled him out of the dumpster? Santino owed her for this. There were literally dozens of hot young white men she could - that weren't this crazy, and also full of bad jokes. "Be honest, though, how do I. If you had to. You think I'm hot but you know about the - y'know." 

"Are we actually playing Hot or Not right now?" she asked. 

"I don't know what that is," Matt said, agreeably. "Fine. If a stranger saw me naked, do you think it would be weird? I mean, I've been taking care of those stitches on my shoulder, they can come out, right?"

There was really no point to hiding the part where she laughed at him, so she didn't bother. 

"No," he said. He was doing that thing where he looked both pathetic and charming, and he was half-naked. He spun in a little circle. "I'm serious, this is -" and he stopped facing away from her, which was surprising; Matt got shy about people watching his face for the oddest reasons, and she was still trying to figure out his boundaries. "This is a serious question, don't laugh." 

Which meant that it was a sex thing, probably; she'd been a nurse long enough to know what it usually meant when someone went squirrelly and self conscious about their body. He was still blushing; she could see the color on the back of his neck, and the strong, hard muscles in his shoulders. The narrow dip of his waist, and the clean lines of his back, and - and yeah, the ass dimples. But that wasn't what he was - "Well," Claire said, thoughtfully, "the lacerations on your back scarred, sure, you know that, but it's not that bad? I guess? I mean, it'll depend on who's looking at you, of course. You know you've got bruises over your left kidney? -" and Matt nodded - "- yeah, yellow and green bruises. They look old. Ah. Your arms are visibly bruised, and you know where your scars are - they're visible, too. Right now, there's nothing particularly obvious? Bruises, mostly, and scars." 

Matt stood straight and still, listening to her, and then cocked his head: who knew, probably listening to her heart or the way her bones creaked under the strain of a thirteen hour day and a forty-five minute commute and then Matt, in her place, yet again. 

 

**

 

Matt left Claire's place feeling satisfied, and like he was running a little hot: like he could get away with it, like the possibility of ambushing Wilson, of inviting him up to Matt's apartment and offering him coffee, or beer, or whiskey, and straddling his thighs, and kissing him, and being kissed - that was on the table, now, because Claire hadn't said that there was anything particularly incriminating in the way that he looked, shirtless. 

He'd spent enough time around Wilson to be fairly sure that he could hold Wilson's attention once he started losing clothes. And it would be good to be touched. It would be good to be held down, to be treated with the cautious, near-tender care that Wilson used on any and everything in his life that he might damage. It had been a long month, and Matt found himself wanting to be treated delicately, like something expensive and exotic: he would call Wilson, he decided. 

 

**

"Don't - worry about it," Matthew said. He shuddered under Wilson's hands. 

"I will," he said. "Though. You - someone should worry about you," and he would've continued, marked the disgraceful lack of care that Matthew showed to his own body, but Matthew had fallen on him like a - like a vulture, like a hawk. 

"Kiss me," Matthew demanded, fierce and low. 

For all the histrionics, he was surprisingly light: Wilson could lift him, flip them, drop to the surprisingly luxurious silk sheets, caging him, and bite at his throat, stroke from his chest to navel. Consider the sweetness of his body. (Wilson couldn't help but note the scars: it seemed bad manners to trace them out, but when he ran fingers down Matthew's sides, his own fingers caught on swollen, puffy scar tissue: it was another maddening piece to the puzzle.) 

"More," Matthew said, hazily. 

"Do you want. That is," Wilson said; he wasn't certain of his role, here, exactly, but he had a good idea: he opened his legs, and Matthew's weight naturally settled more firmly between his thighs. 

"Oh," Matthew said: "oh, I - oh." The naked surprise lit up his whole face. "Yeah, that's good." 

 

***

 

Wilson woke up proud of himself, and gloriously sore, and more than a little guilty about it. There was nothing wrong with being circumspect, it was true, but...but misleading a partner, that was shameful. A good man wouldn't have done that, not for all the dark hair and red lips and long, scarred legs in the world. It was time to - to be truly honest. 

"can hear you staring," Matthew said. He pulled one of the pillows over his head. "Time is it?" 

Wilson ran one hand along Matthew's flank, considering: at this point, he was almost sure, and that filled him with real regret. How to manage this situation? Wesley would undoubtedly become insufferable, and that was fair, and right, but Wilson still wanted Matthew; he wanted Matthew happy, and he liked the way Page and Nelson looked when they were laughing. It was truly unfortunate. "Not quite eight," Wilson said, slow, and thoughtful. "You should be...more careful," he said, and touched a curling snarl of yellow and green over Matthew's hip. He hadn't put that there; it looked like the result of a beating - or possibly someone had thrown him. It gave off a sickly heat. 

Matthew's shoulders tightened. "Ow," he said, deliberate and careful. "I'm...clumsy. Foggy keeps telling me to get a dog." 

In the dim gold light of dawn, Matthew's body looked like a bridge: solid foundation, beautiful and precise in purpose, and covered with brutal graffiti. An ugly, roping scar from his throat that looped into his armpit; a snarling bit of tissue bubbled from a stab wound, it looked like, and the bruising went without saying; 

"Have you," Wilson started, and sighed, because silence would be tantamount to dishonesty, at this point, and Matthew deserved better. "Have you...become intimate. With anyone. Since you started?" 

"You aren't my first," Matthew said, dry and even. 

Matthew got out of bed; Wilson was nearly certain that it was calculated, that Matthew had chosen to put the king sized bed between them. It meant that Matthew, while naked, was on the side of the room with the door, and Wilson stood between Matthew and the window. "Your pants," Wilson said, carefully, and tossed them very gently in his direction. 

He swallowed hard, and shrugged, elaborately casual. "That's not the best way to ask about monogamy, if that's what you're angling for," he said. Pants. Glasses. "I should go, I'm going to be...late." 

"I'm not asking about monogamy; it would be hypocritical." Wilson said, because - oh, if there was a way out of this, he would've taken it. "Matthew, the injuries you've sustained are...to be generous, they are unlikely to be the result of a civilian's life." 

Matthew took a breath, and cocked his head, and even behind his glasses Wilson could see the way his eyes closed, the better to focus. He had no idea what Matthew was, but watching him remained worthwhile. He hadn't realized how deliberate Matthew's calm, friendly demeanor had been until now, when his center of gravity changed and he angled his body, slightly, and his shoulders went back and down. "I don't know what you mean," he said, easily. 

"That was extraordinary," Wilson admitted. "You appear to gain an inch or two, maybe twenty pounds; is it intentional?"

" _what_ is this, are you - are you being pretentious and mysterious about whether I _stand up straight_?" Matt asked. 

"I'd like to see you succeed," Wilson said. 

"That would require getting to work on time," Matthew said. 

Wilson shifted uncomfortably; it would've been damnably hard to have this discussion at all, and Matthew seemed determined to refuse to have it. "Dishonesty doesn't become either of us," he said, finally. 

"What are _you_ lying about?" Matthew asked, and tried a smile; he looked shockingly young, when he smiled, and it had most likely served him well. "Secret crazy wife in the attack? Haven't filed your taxes in six years? I know a good lawyer." 

"I admire Ms. Page," he said. "And Mr. Nelson." 

"They're admirable," Matt said. 

"You're not very cautious about cameras when you're out at night. I suppose it would be difficult, considering your - circumstances."

It sounded frivolous, unnecessarily poetic, to say that violence - or the possibility of violence - had a smell. It _did_ , though: Wilson had found, throughout his life, that it charged the air. In the moments before men became animals, the air between them _shimmered_ , bitter and strong. Men of science might put it down to adrenaline, to hormones: Wilson was no scientist. He simply recognized it, when it happened. He held his hands out, low, slow, careful. "I don't do my partners harm," he said. 

"I d - don't know," Matthew started. His breathing had gone choppy, nearly panicked. "what you're - talking about." The way he shifted his weight, quick, precise, and controlled, _that_ was familiar: the last time Wilson had seen it, it had been on a grainy security feed, but it was still...recognizable. "Why do you have - you shouldn't have access to security cameras," Matthew said. "Y'know what, no. No, I - I am _leaving_ , now. I don't want to - to hurt anyone, so don't. Make me hurt anyone." 

**

Weeks later, Wilson watched Nobu rip Matthew half to pieces. It was painful to watch, it was true, because it was a _waste_ , and because there was no reason in the world for it to happen, but for Matthew's obstinate refusal to _see_ that they were - 

\- that there was no need for enmity, between them. 

He'd forced himself to watch, but he didn't think he could - he wouldn't be able to finish the mess himself, it was true. There were sacrifices that had to be made, to achieve his goals, and yet. He'd sworn that he wouldn't ask his subordinates to do anything that he wasn't willing to do himself, but - but doing violence to someone he'd taken as a lover - even an ex-lover - he didn't have it in him. When Nobu fell, flaming and silent, Wesley touched his elbow. It was kind of him; Wilson did not try to hide the grief on his face, but he met Wesley's eyes and nodded. 

He couldn't categorize his own feelings when Matthew managed to kick Wesley hard in the face and fling himself out the window; it was too much, impossible to digest. 

**

(Months later, after the sham of a trial, Vanessa offered to accompany him, to provide a sort of barrier, if necessary. "I don't think he's afraid of me," she'd mused, carefully lining her mouth with a pencil. She looked ridiculous and still very beautiful, in the early morning light, with her hair fluffed into tangles from the night before. "It might help."

"I should go alone." He'd drawn the coverlet up, smoothed it evenly across the sheets. "I don't meant to overwhelm him." 

Vanessa was still trying to teach him the trick to lifting a single eyebrow. She could do it, and Wesley had been able to do it; he still hadn't mastered the knack. It looked surprisingly ridiculous, while she watched him watching him in the mirror. "I certainly disagree!" She smiled at him; she laughed at him, fond and familiar, joy swelled in his breast. "You're overwhelming on your own, darling." Her ring glittered when she waved him off: "go," she said, "good hunting.") 

**

He caught up to Matthew on the street; Matthew took his elbow, hissed "not here," and guided them to the nearest...alleyway. 

"You're married," Matthew stuttered. He didn't seem offended by the question, which was good, but he did seem...more than a little surprised. Which of them had mistepped? Wilson assumed that he'd been clear, when establishing his intentions, but it was possible that their...tumultuous history would've overshadowed anything but the clearest of statements. Which was why he'd said it so baldly; and even then, now, it seemed to have caught Matthew off guard. 

"Yes," Wilson agreed. That was true enough. "I am lucky enough to have a wife who supports my endeavors." 

Matthew choked a laugh, and pushed his glasses higher on his nose. "Christ," he said, very softly, "yeah, I'll bet. What happens if I say no?" 

Was it a trick? "Then I wouldn't kiss you." 

"Yeah, no, and what else," Matthew said. 

"I don't think I understand the question," Wilson admitted. (Of course there were points of leverage, but Matthew's life was bare and stripped of enough human contact that it would be foolish to waste a genuine threat on something as frivolous as a kiss.) 

"F -fine," Matthew said, in tones befitting a man sent on a suicide mission, and squared his shoulders. Anyone watching would've mistaken him for a man about to take a blow, not a kiss. It might not have been unwarranted, but - Wilson sometimes woke remembering the phantom blows they'd traded, ghosts of the past on his body. Still: 

"No," he said, and pulled away; for the barest half-second Matthew followed him, as if instinctively seeking the warmth of another body. That was interesting. "I won't be the one to make you a martyr." 

Matthew laughed, and color flooded back into his cheeks, suddenly. "Fair enough," he said: "you're not - the first person to." He shook his head. "Never mind." 

**

That was how it started again. Wilson - Wilson felt angry, sometimes, because at first it had been a delicate thing, and now more than not it was ugly, hard, and quick: it was infuriating, it was idiotic, and every few months the itch to - to put his hands on Matthew got under his skin. 

**

It was a poor decision in any light. 

No one with sense would condone his actions. If Wesley was alive - well, if Wesley was alive, he would've known where Wilson went, some nights, and he would've come up with business emergencies on those nights. Kept him away without ever saying the words. 

Wesley was a better man than Wilson. He's always known this. 

He'd thought that there was something addictive about pitting your strength against a worthy adversary. He'd had no idea what it would feel like to lay it on the line, strength against strength, and see the hesitation in Matthew's body language, watch him choose to miss an opening, take a second too long to recover. Before it had happened, he assumed it would be insulting, that it would feel like a false victory. 

But that was before he'd seen it, the way Matthew shuddered when he was touched, the way his whole skin seemed attuned to Wilson's voice, like it had physical weight: somehow, that made every kick with not-quite-enough force behind it, every twist or block that came a half-second too late: oh, those became gifts, and Wilson had gotten greedy for them. Look to Wilson - blind? of course, but he oriented himself to Wilson's hands and Wilson's voice; he had no other words for it - when he was pinned, and relax all in a rush. All that tight, lethal muscle would curl around him: it was always shocking how quickly Murdock gave in once he decided his pride had been satisfied. Two seconds, maybe, separated the transformation between a man ready to try to break Wilson's nose with a headbutt and a half-desperate man wrapping his legs around Wilson's waist, shuddering: he was violent, and insane, but he was so gorgeously broken. 

It made him want to take risks, to see how far he could push: Matthew claimed that he would never join him, and he would always harry at Fisk's heels, it was true, but when Wilson could catch him? He went liquid, demanding: he'd never seen a man who wanted to be caught quite so badly before, all harder and faster, and the slower Wilson went, the louder Matthew got: who wouldn't give into temptation? 

"Ah - you vicious bastard," Matthew growled, because Wilson had his wrists up above his head, this time, and a knee tight between his legs: not quite enough to hurt, just enough to settle him, hopefully. (And it was shameful to admit, but Vanessa had taught him the value of honesty: oh, he liked watching Murdock sweat, and strain against him, and whine in a little pain.) 

"Done yet?" he asked. (He was panting, it was true, because Matthew would always be quicker than him, but they both knew that once he got Matt on the ground, it was all over but the fussing. Some nights Matthew wanted to talk, and some nights he wanted to bite at Wilson's mouth and demand fingers, _no, not one, not two, more, fuck me like you mean it_ -) 

Murdock did something quick and clever, and got a knee into Wilson's kidney. He took the blow sweating, and didn't move: he could wait it out, he could, they were - almost - there - but until they were there, he could enjoy this, the knowledge that oh, he could in fact still pin him down. "Maybe," Matthew said, "maybe just waiting for you to drop your guard," but he didn't move, after that. 

"I'm not involved in the latest heroin trafficking," Wilson said, honestly, because sometimes Matthew would get himself caught in his own head, if he was left alone for too long. 

"No," he agreed, and there, there, there it went; he relaxed his arms, stopped twisting his wrists in an attempt to break Wilson's hold, and tipped his hips into Wilson's knee. "No, you're not," he said, thoughtfully, "oh -"

"Finally," Wilson couldn't help saying, he knew it was needling, it might in fact undo the work of the last ten minutes, but - honestly - would that be so bad? Because Matthew was beautiful in a fight, savage and efficient and brilliantly inventive, and sometimes watching him was all it took to get Wilson's blood to a steady boil, thinking one day, and everyone has a weak point: one day, he knew, one day Hell's Kitchen and its Devil would be his entirely, and proud to call themselves his, but for now? This, this struggle, this was a joy too, something earthy and dark that hit him deep in the core: the way Matthew demanded, the way he opened that pretty mouth and begged for it: "oh, yeah, shut me up if you can," he'd say, or "is that the best you can do? because - oh - nghh - no, like you mean it, asshole -" 

The first time since Matthew had left, when he'd laughed in his face - "yeah, can't do this with your new girlfriend, can you?" and yes, it had needled, it had prickled, it had enraged him, but he'd never felt the red haze of rage overlaid with lust like that before: Matt had been on his stomach, hips pinned flat and still shifting hard against Wilson's, flushed from his chest to his hairline. He hadn't; he would never have touched Vanessa in that ugly, possessive way, but Murdock made it - easy, somehow, easy to pick him up by the scruff and the (ridiculously muscular) thighs and shove him against the wall, high enough that he couldn't put a foot on the floor, so he'd had to wrap his thighs around Wilson's waist if he wanted leverage. Which he had, and did: that had been enough to get him to wail, arch against the cold stone and rub his cheek against it like he was lost, still bleeding from the mouth. 

Half the trouble of it had been forcing him to wait - Matthew fucked like he fought, like common sense and care for his own body were personally offensive to him. Wilson had to hold him down, one hand on the small of his back, while he'd worked fingers in, and from the noise, you'd have thought that he was giving Murdock's whole family line a mortal insult. 

"Hurry up and do it," Matthew kept sneering, "but - but - oh - "

"I prefer not to cripple my partners," he'd said, and it had been honest but irritated, because did Matthew know absolutely nothing about anything, how was he still alive, and that had turned out to be a mistake, because he'd laughed hard. 

"Shit - oh - spare me your _ego_ , I - " and he'd kept talking until Wilson had finally, finally lined up and started to press in, slow, slow, slow. 

That had made it worthwhile, watching the hard muscled shoulders tighten in shock. Matt's face had been obscured - he'd dropped his head between his arms, panting, and took it sweating. 

"No," he'd said, for the first time that night sounding overwhelmed, a little drunk, and didn't that hit Wilson deep in the gut, possessive, vindictive: "wait, I -"

"Relax," he'd grunted. "Push back. Do the opposite of what you're doing now, will you listen to me now?" and shockingly, finally, Matt had made a noise like a groan and like a laugh and done it, immediately, and it had gotten better, and that had been a victory and it had also been very interesting to see him obey, what it took to make him obey. 

**

Wilson hadn't meant to indulge again: he knew, and Vanessa knew, just how foolish this...interest could be, in the long run, but - but circumstances kept bringing them together. Matthew had been under the impression that Wilson was so ashamed of his lapse in control that he couldn't bear to speak of it, and he'd laughed - "what, I know you wanna fuck me, sorry things aren't happy at home for felons this time of year - "

And that had been infuriating, because Wilson wasn't stupid, he'd seen the wet spot, watched the shaking, he knew that Matthew had been just as affected as he had - so they'd wrestled to the ground, and Matthew had gone quiet and eager when Wilson had gotten him on his stomach, ass tipped up in blatant invitation, until Wilson had made it clear that he meant to use his mouth. 

"what - no," Matthew had growled, breaking the loose grip Wilson had gotten on one hip, "no, what are you -"

"fucking you," Wilson had said, and put enough weight on the arm over the small of his back to keep him down. "shut up, please, you're much more bearable when you don't talk."

Which was a lie, of course. He hadn't promised Murdock honesty, after all. 

**

Once they arranged to fuck right after Matt had destroyed about half a million of his property, and showed up punch-drunk and exhausted: it took all of three minutes for Wilson to knock him across the room. And he'd gone quiet uncharacteristically soon, in the game. 

Watching him lie still under Wilson's body, that did almost nothing for the rage: what a _mess_ this boy was, what a goddamn nuisance. 

Matthew caught that train of thought with the preternatural, inhuman ease that he sometimes used to tap into a mere mortal's thought process, and stiffened. 

"You just cost me five hundred thousand," he said.

"Take it out in trade," Matthew said, grinning like a skull.

 

***

"Oh, that's lovely," Vanessa said, one evening. She'd gotten back unexpectedly early. Matthew twisted up, managed to hook his ankle over Wilson's _shoulder_ , and groaned: "oh _no_ , get _off_ ," he said. 

"Not on my account," she called; Wilson could see her, out of the corner of his eye, carefully removing her jewelry. "We _do_ have clean sheets, though, yes?" 

"Yes," Wilson grunted, and bit at Matthew's clavicle. 

"Good," Vanessa sighed, and walked to the bed, and curled up next to the headboard, close to where he'd looped the rope holding Matthew's left wrist still. "God, he's beautiful," she said, thoughtfully. Matthew turned his face away from her and clenched his jaw. "I do see the appeal."


End file.
